Hand
by Silverblaze horse
Summary: Fear was never Sherlock's problem, but now he has lost control. The only things that keep him going are two people who help him and a ghost story.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes**

Many thanks to my beta readers: Laura001, Silvermouse and supersherlockedgalifreyan

This story contains mention of torture and injury.

 _Sherlock woke up and didn't know where he was. It was dark. He remembered being beaten. He was captured. He remembered the glee with which his tortures had worked, especially Jamal, the boss of the gang. They had taken his left hand, put it on a table and then they'd taken a big hammer. He could still hear the snap when his thumb broke._

 _He shifted. He was lying on his back in a bed. There hadn't been a bed in the basement room where they kept him. That could only mean that they had moved him. He could now distinguish shapes; he was in a large room and on his left hand side, there was a machine with green lights. He slowly lifted his left arm to inspect the damage. To his surprise, it didn't hurt. It looked and felt like a big lump. Carefully, he touched it with his other hand and felt a rough surface; the hand was cast in plaster, or probably some kind of polymer variety on it. He felt the inside of his elbow and found what he expected: a tube. He had an IV. He was in a hospital. Was he safe or were they just patching him up to torture him some more? He took a deep breath._

 _Suddenly, he stiffened and his heart raced. Out of his bed, to his right, came a hand. It touched him and stroked his hair. He could feel the ring on its ring finger._

'Would you please write a line in the diary?' John looked at Sherlock with mild irritation. 'It'll take no more than three seconds.'

Sherlock shrugged. They were in a small hotel room on the ground floor. It was relatively basic but comfortable, with a double bed, a wardrobe, bathroom and a table with two chairs. On the table were John's laptop and a chessboard. Bright light came in from the window.

'Why?'

'Let's say I'm conducting an experiment.'

'I've got nothing to write about, I just woke up.'

'Then you write that.' John gave him the diary, open on a blank page, and a pen. He took them both with his right hand because his left hand was cast. He sat up and put the diary on his lap. There were three pre-printed rows on the page: day, time and comment. Sherlock let his pen hoover over the first row. 'What was the day again?'

'Wednesday.'

He wrote it down, then looked around for a clock.

John watched him closely. 'Do you know what time it is?'

Sherlock looked out of the window. The brightness of the light indicated that it must have been late in the morning. 'Nine thirty?'

'Ten thirty,' John corrected him.

'Ok, Wednesday, ten thirty…' Sherlock wrote it down and in the comment section he wrote 'just woke up'. 'Happy now?' he asked John when he gave back the diary.

'Perfectly happy,' said John with a fake smile as he laid the booklet next to the chessboard. He sat down at the table and returned his attention to his laptop.

Sherlock closed his eyes. His whole body felt sore. They had called themselves 'The Red Triangle', an important cell of an international crime network. He'd known about them for a while and he'd known that he had occasionally been a nuisance for them. Sometimes he'd track down a member for a client but mostly he'd left them alone, staying carefully on the surface all the while collecting information. He'd talk about them in long meetings with Greg Lestrade, but that was about it. An individual detective was no match for them and he knew how to stay away from danger. Then there had been the client. Her son had been beaten up and she had asked Sherlock to find the offender. The clues had been obvious. A little too obvious in retrospect. As he had foolishly entered an empty house in one of the suburbs he'd fallen right into their trap. Whether the beatings were supposed to have been a warning for him or that his slow agonising death was supposed to have been a warning for others, he still didn't know.

'Hey.' John's voice sounded soft. Sherlock looked up and saw that John was looking at him. 'Are you all right?'

Sherlock shifted which made him aware of all the bruising he had. 'Yeah, I was just thinking about the Triangle.'

'Not a flashback?'

'No, I'm just wondering what to do about them.'

'They can wait, you know,' John said. 'We're safe now. Why don't you tell me about why we're here?'

Sherlock looked around in the hotel room and for one moment he couldn't work out why they were there. 'Why we're here, right.'

John smiled and rolled his eyes. 'That brain of yours… The ghost story, Sherlock.'

'Right, the ghost story.' Sherlock smiled back. 'So basically, we're looking for a legend.'

 _He woke up and didn't know where he was. He was in a bed and it was broad daylight. His whole body was sore. Looking to his left, he saw that he was connected to a machine. His left hand was cast and he had an IV. He also had something on his right index finger, like a clothes peg. He looked at it and followed the wire to the machine, though the numbers didn't mean much to him. It wasn't a heartrate. There was something on his face, when he felt with his hand; he felt tubes around his face running into his nose. That must be for oxygen, so maybe the finger clip was an oxygen monitor. This was a hospital._

 _Why was he here? He remembered that he was captured and being tortured. It was the Red Triangle. Where were they now? Did they let him recover so that they could torture him again?_

 _Wherever he was, he was in no position to stay. If there were doctors and nurses treating him, either they were in on it or powerless to stop what was happening. He needed to escape and quick, preferably without anyone noticing it. He looked at the IV, and saw it was possible to disconnect the bag. He didn't know why he had the IV, but he knew it could be dangerous to take out. With his right hand, he clumsily worked on the bag. Every second, he looked around but there was no one coming. Finally, the bag fell. He picked it up and wedged it between his left arm and his body. His ribs hurt. The next move needed to be fast. If he removed the finger clip and the oxygen tubes, the machine would start beeping, cueing a nurse to take a look. He sat up, the IV bag on his left arm and slid his feet out of the bed, onto the cold ground. Now! With his right hand, he grabbed the tubes and pulled them off his face. With his teeth, he removed the finger clip._

 _He stood and immediately, the world started to turn. He grabbed the bed for balance. It was as if he were drunk. He focused: about five steps to the door; use the doorpost as balance aid. He almost ran to the door, navigating the impossible shaking world. He managed to stay upright and grabbed the door post. He carefully looked into the corridor. It was empty. Good, very good. Did he have to go left or right? Luckily, hospitals tend to be well signposted, and the sign 'exit' was to the left. Using the wall as a walking aid, he turned left._

'That really was a flashback.'

Sherlock looked at John in surprise. 'How did you know?'

'It's not exactly difficult. Even you must be aware that facial expressions convey emotion.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at the chessboard. Its pieces were in a King's Gambit. 'Were we playing?'

'We never play chess. You were playing Mycroft.'

'Oh, I see.' Sometimes he'd recreate a chess game to see where it would lead. 'What was I talking about again?'

'The case, the ghost story.' John rolled his eyes. 'The legend.'

'Right, so it is a story about this hotel. It started out with guests complaining that they were missing personal items. The manager first thought that someone was stealing them but it was strange because they were so random. Things like socks, nightgowns, the battery from a phone, shoe laces-'

'Very random items then?' John said with his eyes on his laptop.

'Oh, come on, don't look so bored, I'm telling you a ghost story.'

John looked up. 'You're right, sorry.'

'To answer your question, yes, they were not things of value. Still, the manager though that someone might be stealing things for the thrill, or that someone was bored and playing pranks. He told all his staff about this problem and if it didn't stop soon, people would get in trouble. The chambermaids were obvious first suspects.'

'Did he install cameras?'

'In a hotel?'

John grinned. 'Right, that's not the most brilliant business idea.'

'My brother would be terrible at running a hotel. But regardless of what the manager said to his staff, the strange disappearances continued. He wouldn't have thought anything more of it until once he talked to an old lady who was checking out.

'Did you enjoy your stay?' he asked out of routine.

'Oh, yes,' she said. 'And it was so lovely of you people that you put that nice vase of tulips on the table at night. It was such a lovely surprise.' '

Sherlock smiled at John, who had turned to his laptop again. 'It was indeed a surprise: a surprise for the manager. The staff never entered the rooms at night when guests were asleep.'

'Yeah, that sounds fundamentally wrong.'

'That's how he knew something else was going on. The stories kept coming, but now, people were also talking about a 'presence' in the room. One room in particular.'

'Let me guess…' John looked around their room.

'Indeed.'

'One night, he heard a scream. Worried, he went to the room where the sound had come from. In the hallway, he found a young woman in pyjamas. He recognised her, she'd checked in the day before. When she saw him, she ran towards him. She was crying.'

'She was staying in this room?'

'Of course. He brought her to his office and got her a cup of tea. When she had calmed down a bit, she told him her story. She was here for only one night because she was travelling to her parents in the country and didn't feel like driving the whole day so she had cut it in two. She was alone, but she liked the place, even walked a small track. That changed when she was back and the sun had gone down. The whole evening she felt uneasy, as if someone was standing behind her but she shrugged it off. Sometimes, strange places do that with people. '

'Especially places with ghost stories.'

'She didn't know about the story, or so I've been told at least. That type of information often tends to become embellished a bit over time.' Sherlock shrugged. 'Anyway, when she went to bed, the uneasy feeling hadn't gone away. She was very aware of her own breathing. There was something strange about it. It seemed as if the breathing was in stereo, almost as if someone else was there too.'

'And there wasn't.'

'No, there was no one there. Just as she went back to sleep she felt it.' Sherlock lowered his voice. 'A hand from the bed, stroking her hair.'

'Ok, that's quite creepy.'

'She screamed and turned around but the bed was empty. She was alone. She looked around in her room and saw that her shoes had disappeared. There was no one in the room. Just as she was calming down, she felt air flowing down her neck, as if someone was standing right behind her. She screamed and ran out of the door.'

'And then she ran into the manager. Did they look around?'

'They turned the whole room upside down but they couldn't find anything unusual.' Sherlock grinned. 'Nothing other than her shoes, which they found on top of the wardrobe. At this point, the woman started to believe that she might have imagined it. The manager wasn't convinced but he didn't tell her that. She went back to bed. Just as she was drifting off, she heard it very distinctly. The sound of breathing. She felt her hair moving with it. Her heart raced and she stayed completely still. The hand softly stroked her hair and then rested on her shoulder.

'What do you want?' she asked. There was no answer. She looked around but there was no one there. She closed her eyes again and a moment later, the hand was there again. She was expecting it this time.

'Are you a ghost?' she asked. 'Do you need something?'

It was silent for a while but then she heard something. Like the breathing of the wind, there was a voice.

'I… don't…. need… anything,' she discerned.

She concentrated. The next line was easier to hear. 'Being with you is its own reward.''


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stretched and smiled.

John smiled back. 'Rather a cuddly ghost then. Are you sure you want to sleep here?'

'Although I'd rather avoid being 'cuddled' by a ghost, it is an interesting case, wouldn't you agree?'

'Yeah, sure. What time is it?'

Sherlock looked at his arm; no watch. He shrugged impatiently. 'No idea, c'mon John, It's ghost hunting time.'

'Ghost hunting.' John gave Sherlock a sceptical look. 'We're hunting a ghost.'

'Yes, like a ghost but not an actual ghost of course. Ghosts don't exist.'

Sherlock looked out of the window. People were walking and sitting in a small park behind the hotel. 'They really don't exist.' There was an important reason why they were searching for the ghost and he wasn't going to tell John.

Sherlock was already at the door when he saw that John hadn't even made an attempt to get up.

'Come on, John, don't be so slow.'

'Where are you going? Isn't this the room?'

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. 'Yes, yes, but we've seen the room, we must know if it's accessible from outside.'

'Oh, wonderful.' With a theatrical sigh, John closed his laptop, put it next to the chessboard on the table and he got up. Sherlock didn't wait for him to join him as he walked out of the door with an energetic pace, only to be reminded of the bruising all over his body.

In the hallway, John caught up with him. 'Not that fast, are you?' he said, nodding in the general direction of Sherlock's body.

Sherlock looked at him with a pained expression. 'I'd forgotten how much it hurts.'

John smiled and for one second, he carefully put a hand on his shoulder. 'You'll be fine, Sherlock.'

'I know.'

They passed the receptionist and John greeted her.

'Was that the manager?' John asked Sherlock when they were outside.

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, the manager was a man, bit of a stiff guy, dark brown hair.' He tried to remember the man but it remained vague. He'd probably decided that it wasn't very important to remember him.

John laughed. 'Do you even remember his name?'

'Names are arbitrary annotations; I'll recognise him when I see him.'

Outside, Sherlock looked around. In front of the hotel was a parking lot that could be accessed by a boom gate he didn't remember. Had they driven here? He could ask John how they had gotten here but, after John would probably consider locking him up for saying something that stupid. It wouldn't be the first time that he was so concentrated on a case that he had forgotten about the most common things.

'Do you want to go into the garden?' John asked.

'I want to go behind the room we were in so I can see if it can be accessed from outside.'

'Then we must go around into the garden.' John pointed to a footpath and they followed it. The path led around the hotel into a nicely landscaped garden. There were quite a number of people sitting on benches. The hotel was probably quite full.

'Sherlock, there's one thing I don't understand.' John said as they made their way into the garden. 'You've seen dozens of those stories and you always dismiss them immediately. Obviously, the story is made up, most likely by the manager, to give the hotel a bit of an edge.'

'It's not made up.'

'How do you know?'

'I just know, all right?' Sherlock said louder than he had intended.

'Fine!' John took a deep breath and continued in a normal tone. 'So what could it have been, if it wasn't a ghost?'

Sherlock sighed. 'I don't know. It could be a prank. It could be someone creating this for other reasons.'

'Maybe it's just a legend?'

'That doesn't explain what the woman experienced. Or the missing items.'

'That could have been made up. Maybe the woman was made up too.'

Sherlock looked at John pensively. 'Yes, I need to speak to that woman.'

'Okay.' John looked rather incredulous. 'So let's pretend your hypothesis is true; that someone creates this illusion for people…' He looked at Sherlock. 'Why would anyone do that?'

Sherlock grinned. 'I'm an investigator, not a philosopher or a psychologist. The question is not why, the question is how.'

'Oh, hello!' John said and Sherlock followed his glance. A man with short brownish hair walked towards them, smiling.

'Hello John. Hello Sherlock,' he said. 'Enjoying the sunshine?'

'Ghost hunting.' John deadpanned.

The man looked around the green sunlit garden. 'Good luck with that,' he said with a smile. He looked at Sherlock. 'Are you afraid?'

'How can I be afraid? I'm investigating a ghost story.'

The man laughed. Sherlock laughed with him.

'How are you feeling?' the man asked. 'Still pretty sore I guess?'

'The bruising? Yes, that hurts quite a lot.' Sherlock looked at John. 'What did you tell him about me?'

John made a dismissive gesture. 'You know how doctors talk amongst each other.' The other man smiled. Sherlock smiled back and excused himself. While he let John and the doctor talk shop together, he made his way to the window of the room.

Below the windows there were bushes and it took him a while to work out which window was the one he was looking for. He hadn't counted the rooms, but with a bit of searching he recognised the room they had been in because of the chessboard he could just make out through the window. He looked back; John was still talking to the doctor. He focused on the window again, looking for the obvious thing that simply had to be there.

The windowpane was made of wood, and the paint wasn't new but there weren't any marks on it. It would have been very hard to open it without causing damage so the only way anyone could have gotten in was if the window had been open already. He frowned. It didn't make sense; there should have been some damage to the windowpane. He looked at the rest of the wall. It was made of white stone and completely intact. Maybe there was something like a passageway. He scrambled through the bushes until he was right next to the window. With the fingers of his right hand, he carefully inspected the wall, stone by stone. Nothing. Just a simple wall.

A breeze of wind chilled him. In the shade of the bushes it wasn't warm at all. He felt uneasy, as if someone were standing behind him, which was nonsense of course. There was no one there and ghosts didn't exist. Maybe it was this place, but he felt a sense of dread, a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that demanded attention. He knew he shouldn't give it attention. He really shouldn't give it attention. Something was wrong here.

Suddenly, he startled. There was a rustle in the bushes behind him. Then he recognised the movement of a human and a moment later, John appeared.

'Mycroft just texted me,' John said. 'Apparently, he'll be late. You probably won't be seeing him until tomorrow.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I don't need him. Why did he want to be here anyway? Ghost stories will probably bore him to death.'

'Ask him, I think he likes them more than you realise.'

'Whatever.' Sherlock turned his attention back to the window. Now he saw something he'd missed earlier. It was one of those windows that could only open from above, leaving a small gap. Even if it were wide open, it would have been impossible for a person to go through it. He looked at John.

'This doesn't make sense.'

'Why not?'

'If there was a person in that room, the only way he could have gotten in was through the door and the woman would have noticed that.'

'Sound sleeper?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Possibly but that's not really a way to create a ghost experience. The chance that you get caught is too high.'

John shrugged and turned around back to the garden. Sherlock followed him, knowing that John didn't quite understand how strange this really was. There was no way someone could have faked it and scared the woman into believing she'd seen a ghost. The entire story was a hoax. The question was: by whom and why?

They walked back into the garden. Clouds were beginning to form and it was getting colder. Many of the benches were now empty. Sherlock and John walked back the way they had come. They passed a lady in a white dress who was still sitting on a bench. Suddenly, Sherlock felt a hand grabbing his trousers. He looked around. The lady was holding him. She had a friendly round face with dark black curls. 'Pop pop pop,' she said.

Sherlock looked at John who had stopped next to him. 'I beg your pardon?' he said to the woman.

'Pop pop pop pop,' she said. 'Pop pop pop pop pop.'

Sherlock looked from the woman to John and back to the woman, helplessly.

'Pop pop pop,' said the woman again, gripping him tighter and looking him in the eyes. 'Pop pop pop pop pop. POP POP POP POP POP!'


	3. Chapter 3

'It's no big deal,' said John when they were back in the room. 'It's just aphasia.' He looked at Sherlock. 'That happens to people sometimes. I'll see if I can get someone for her.'

They fell silent. Sherlock sat down on one of the chairs next to the chessboard. He felt uneasy. Whatever was happening here, he did not understand it. He looked at John and saw that his friend was still standing in the doorway studying his face.

'Are you all right?' John asked with a concerned voice.

'Yeah, I'm fine. It's aphasia, yeah, it must be aphasia.' He frowned. 'Isn't that when you can't find words?'

'That's Wernicke aphasia, this must be general. I never really see it as a GP.'

'Right,' Sherlock said and stared, lost in thoughts. He didn't even hear it when John left.

They had dinner together, something simple that they could eat in the room. After that, they said goodbye. As they had agreed, John would be going back home while Sherlock stayed in the hotel.

'Sure you'll be fine?' John asked when he had taken his coat and bag.

Sherlock smiled. 'Of course. Basically I'm curious what this non-existent ghost would look like.' He sighed. 'Probably nothing will happen.'

They said goodbye and Sherlock went back to the room. He looked at the bed. He was really tired and it was probably the best if he pretended to be asleep. Suddenly, he stopped. His shoes were nicely put in the corner, next to each other. He looked at them and frowned. He would have sworn that he'd just kicked them out somewhere randomly. He shrugged; he'd probably simply forgotten putting them there. From under one of the pillows he fetched his pyjamas and he went to bed. Let the show begin, he thought when he closed his eyes.

A thud made him wake up, his heart pounding. He looked around, the room was dark and empty, nothing out of place, just as he expected. His shoes were still in their strange location in the corner, looking like a dark shade.

A loud click. He looked at the door again. It was closed. Of course it was. Why would it move? He heard the sound of a click and a thud. It was a door handle. Maybe it was from the room next door. Of course it was. But he knew it wasn't. The door handle slowly went down.

He stared at the door intensely, feeling fear and curiosity at the same time. Whatever or whoever it was, now he would know.

The door opened, making a soft noise he didn't remember hearing before. He heard the sound of footsteps. The door now opened entirely. He stared. He could dimly see the hallway. There was no one there.

Now he heard footsteps coming towards him. He stared into the darkness but saw nothing. The door closed with a soft thud. He now heard rummaging. There was something in his room. Something or someone. The shoes! He looked at the corner where his shoes were. The corner was empty.

Things that were once there disappear. What does that mean? No, Sherlock think about it, he said to himself, when do things disappear when you aren't looking at them?

A dream, of course, it must be a dream. So now all he needed to do was to wake up. Wake up, he told his body. Wake up! Nothing happened and then…

With a sharp flash he opened his eyes. He was lying with his face towards the window, the room was quiet, slightly lit from a light outside. He was panting but now he forced hi breathing to slow down, the sound growing softer and softer.

That's when he heard it.

A second rhythm of breathing, out of sync with his own. He froze.

For one second he thought that maybe it was just his imagination. The next thing made it completely obvious that it wasn't. There was a movement behind him.

Then, he felt a weight falling on his shoulder. He could feel its warmth. The shape grabbed his shoulder.

It was a hand.

Lightning fast, he turned around and grabbed it, half expecting to see nothing but that wasn't the case. There was a man sleeping next to him. In the shades he saw a face with closed eyes. A face he recognised. It was his brother.

'Mycroft…' He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible. 'What are we doing together in a double bed?'

Mycroft opened his eyes a millimetre. 'Ghost hunting, wasn't it?'

'John told me you'd be here. He didn't say you'd be in my bed.'

Mycroft closed his eyes again. 'Glad you remember that.'

'You mean you were joining us? Since when do you take an interest in ghosts?'

'If something that doesn't exist, suddenly starts exiting, that might pick a person's interest.' He turned back again.

Sherlock sat up, wide awake. 'But not yours. Why would you be ghost hunting with me?'

'Never seen one,' Mycroft murmured.

'That's a rubbish reason.'

'Whatever.' Mycroft grew quiet, obviously going back to sleep.

Sherlock scanned the room. He couldn't really tell whether anything had moved. There was no sign of anything suspicious. 'I thought you were it,' he said.

'By lack of an actual ghost, I suppose I'm your go to second choice.'

'You look enough like one.'

'Have a look in the mirror yourself. Maybe an exorcist should be called for.'

'I was supposed to _be_ the exorcist.' Sherlock got out of the bed, the floor was cold on his bare feet. He looked around and found his slippers scattered not far from the bed. On the table, he saw the chessboard. The pieces were somewhere mid-game. He heard Mycroft getting up behind him.

'Are you okay, Sherlock?'

Sherlock didn't turn around but looked at the chessboard. He didn't recognize the game.

'Did someone play chess here?'

Mycroft sighed. 'Yes, we did.' He got out of bed and stood next to his brother. 'Ghosts don't play chess, Sherlock. In case you're wondering, that's because they don't actually exist.'

Sherlock moved to the chess board. 'I know.' He must have played a million games with Mycroft and after a while, they sometimes looked alike a bit. Even though Mycroft was better at chess, he would sometimes let Sherlock win, apparently finding pleasure by giving Sherlock a challenge.

'Was I black or white?'

'White of course. You always open with a Kings Gambit.'

Sherlock sat down at the white side and looked at the pieces. 'Which you accepted, apparently.'

Mycroft sat opposite him and looked at him over his black pieces. 'I did.'

'Sure that was you? I don't remember you moving a piece.'

'No, it was the ghost.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You don't get much out of this, do you?'

'Out of forty King's Gambits? I must admit that the intellectual challenge wears off at times.'

'Then why are you playing?'

'Has it not occurred to you that I simply like to play with you?'

'No.'

Mycroft shrugged. 'Then maybe it should.'

'Unlikely.' Sherlock hovered with his good hand over a pawn.

'Yes, it's your turn.' Mycroft nodded and Sherlock moved his piece.

'Mike.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'You know how much I hate it when people amputate my name.'

'That was the name of the manager. John asked me about it and I couldn't remember.'

Mycroft chuckled. 'So after six hours you've got half a name? Your memory must be improving.'

'Only an idiot retains irrelevant information.'

'Only an idiot thinks he knows in advance which information is irrelevant.'

Sherlock saw the humour in his brother's eyes. He smiled. Mycroft smiled back.

 _He woke up and didn't know where he was. The room he was in was small, maybe seven foot long and four feet wide. The light was bright, coming from a halogen light above him. There was no one else. Probably one of their tricks. The last thing that he remembered was that he was tied to a chair and being beaten with a heavy stick. Maybe a baseball bat. His heard pounded and his breathing was heavy. He saw he was wearing a long shirt, a bit like what patients get in hospital. His left hand was cast in plaster. Behind that, he saw a tube coming out of his arm. The IV bag was on the floor. He picked it up, it said NaCl. Saline. He was wiser than to remove an IV bag. Possibly, it would keep his blood pressure stable. Looking around now, he saw that the room had metal doors on both ends and a row of numbers with buttons next to it on the wall. It was a lift._

 _For a moment he looked at the numbers and the display. It said twelve. Wherever he was, and whoever put him there, it was always the best option to control one's own situation. Get out of this situation; his instincts told him. It didn't really matter where he would go, as long as he was out of their influence. The choice was obvious. He pressed zero._


	4. Chapter 4

He was running. He was following a road he that didn't know. It was night and there was a small moon. In the moonlight he could see the hills around him. They looked like they were mostly covered with forest. The forest! Darkness was his friend now and the road was the absolute enemy. That's where they would find him. However, running in the forest without any orientation would make him go in a circle, going right back where he came from. That should be avoided at all costs. There was one solution: he could go into the forest while still following the road and use his orientation from a distance. He swayed to the right and into the forest.

Immediately he was slowed down to a walk. In the dark it was almost impossible to watch one's steps. He wore trainers, tracksuits and a t-shirt that he didn't remember buying. It was cold. He tripped and almost fell on his nose. Grabbing a branch with his right hand he found balance again and stopped for a moment. His left hand was still cast in plaster. He vaguely remembered having an IV once, but a quick check on his arms proved that it was gone. He listened.

It was dead quiet but in the far distance, he heard a car. He couldn't hear whether it was coming in his direction going or away. It would be difficult to hear anyway, since the road had lots of bends. His heart raced. Under the cover of the trees and bushes he was harder to spot but it was possible that their headlights still caught him. A movement or a rustling of branches would be enough to give him away.

He looked around and then saw something he'd missed earlier. The hills had ridges. Following them would be relatively easy and it would even be possible to have a good view of the surroundings without being seen. He listened again. The sound of the car was still there. He couldn't work out whether it was closer or not. He looked to the ridge of the hill he was on. It was long and connected to another ridge. He turned around and started scrambling.

He wasn't even thirty feet higher when his body was screaming for oxygen and he had to stop. Amazing how quickly he had lost shape in a week of captivity, though the torture might have had something to do with it. His left hand didn't hurt because of the plaster, but he knew all the fingers were broken. While he was catching his breath he listened. The car was definitely moving closer.

He turned back to the hill and slowly started to move up. With his right hand, he grabbed branches and leaves to steady himself, careful not to fall. He knew that if he fell, he would automatically use his left hand to break his fall, possibly damaging it further. He moved as fast as he could but it wasn't very fast. He didn't have to stop to listen for the car again; he could hear it without stopping now. He looked around. Any moment now, he would be able to see headlights coming up from around the bend.

A shot of adrenaline went through his veins. If they came around the corner, they might see him. He looked around for bushes and found something resembling blackberry in the dark about thirty feet away from him more or less horizontally. He scrambled towards it, dividing his attention between his footing and the direction of the car sound. He was only nine feet away when he finally saw the headlights.

He ducked and froze, his eyes fixed on the car. It was black, the favourite colour of gangsters of all stripes. It was moving slowly in the night. That could mean only one thing. They were searching. A light shone out of one of the back windows. A torch, moving up and down, and left and right.

Sherlock slowly turned his head to look around. The trees didn't hide him completely, but they would make it hard to see him. Luckily he didn't stand out in a large, lightly coloured patch of grass or something. He estimated: the blackberry bush was almost within reach but moving towards it could betray his position. The car was now about forty feet from the place where he had started his climb.

The flashlight from the back seat was moving over the hill. He knew what they were doing. They were looking for reflections of eyes. Eyes would reflect light in the darkness, the colour of reflection depending on the species of the animal. Human eyes reflected red. He closed his eyes and sat totally quiet, his heart racing.

The slow rumbling of the car told him it was very close. He now heard a voice shouting something. Were they calling him? Yes, he definitely heard: Sherlock! Sherlock! For one moment he was completely puzzled, they were enemies, surely they wouldn't call. Was it possible that the people down here were in fact not his enemies but his friends? But it could also be a double bluff, his enemies could call him, hoping that he would mistake them for helpers and he would become the easiest catch ever.

He made a decision, the risk was too high. Getting help should be done on his terms, not on anyone else's. He stayed still. A red flash over his eyelids told him that the light of the torch crossed him. He listened intensely; the car didn't stop, the calling didn't stop or change pitch. Slowly, the car moved past him. He still didn't move. He now realised how much his body ached, it was bruised almost everywhere and his muscles protested against the heavy workout. When the sound of the car grew fainter, he finally opened his eyes. He saw the red lights as the car was now moving into the next bend. He waited until the car moved out of sight and then he got up and continued climbing.

The climb up felt like it would never end. He continuously tripped over roots and branches in the dark and sometimes bushes forced him to make a detour. Finally, the steepness declined and walking became easier. The ridge wasn't sharp and relatively easy to follow. The vegetation was less dense here. Although trees and bushes still blocked a part of the view, he could see a road on the other side of the hill.

Moving forward over the ridge was still moving up, but he saw that there was a path. He followed it. In the dark, it was unlikely that he would be spotted. He would probably see and hear other people sooner than they would see or hear him.

It was dead quiet as he followed the path. His trainers made soft thuds on the path, they sounded loud to him. The sky had been partly overcast, even though a small moon was occasionally visible, but now it was clearing up, revealing Orion and Urseus Major, the latter of which particularly useful as it points to the pole star. It was the only part of astronomy he'd ever bothered to remember. Not that it really made a difference to know where north was now, the hills had a large say in where he was going, and he didn't even know where he was, so knowing in which direction he was going didn't help a great deal. The only true use for the pole star at this point was that it would help him not to go in circles.

After about twenty minutes of walking, he saw a dark shape looming up, a building. He stopped. Buildings could be his saviours or his enemies. It was possible that they expected him to go here and waited in the shadows. He listened. There was no sound. Taking care to stay in the shadows of the trees, he moved closer. He saw now that it was a half open building; probably a shelter for walkers. Next to it, he saw a dark square, probably a sign for the walkers about routes and sights on the way.

This was good; it meant that there would be people here regularly. He could wait here until someone came along, explain his situation and that person could call an alarm number or bring him to the police. The only thing that he needed to do now was to wait and make sure they didn't catch him first. Suddenly he froze; his heart rate went up to what must be two hundred beats an hour. Someone was walking behind the shelter.


	5. Chapter 5

He saw the light of a torch. He wasn't well hidden enough to withstand being shined on by a torch. If he only shone in his direction, he'd be seen. He looked around, two feet away was a bush. He moves and squatted behind it. Leaves and branches rustled. He heard the man stop in his tracks. He couldn't see him anymore but he saw the light beam on the bush.

'Sherlock?'

For a moment Sherlock stopped breathing. He knew that voice. It was John.

'Sherlock, are you there?'

His brain kicked into action, more sluggishly than he liked. Was John with them? Of course not, what a stupid idea, he'd been running from the wrong person.

He got up, branches rustled because of his movement, the movement of a large animal. John heard it and immediately shone in his direction. The light was bright in his eyes.

'I'm here,' he said, his voice fainter than he'd expected.

'I can see that, you idiot…' John's voice was full of relief. He walked up to Sherlock, and seeing that the light was bothering his friend, he brought the torch down a bit. 'Are you ok?'

'I'm fine.' He walked to John and shook his head dismissively, even though his whole body ached. 'What are you doing here?'

'Dancing the foxtrot. Any other stupid questions?'

John gave him a look and he laughed despite himself. When John saw that, he laughed too. Suddenly, he stuck out his hand towards Sherlock's head. Sherlock flinched but John ignored it. With a fluent motion, he put two fingers on his throat to measure his friend's pulse.

'Your pulse is pretty high.'

'I know. I can feel it.' He grimaced. 'I've been exercising.'

'Exercising…' John clacked his tongue like a stern doctor deriding a stubborn patient. 'Come with me then.' He felt Sherlock's neck with the back of his hand. 'And you're cold too.' He took off his coat and threw it over Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock accepted it without question and put his right hand through the sleeve. John was right; he was pretty cold and didn't really mind being mothered over a bit by his friend. His left hand didn't fit through the sleeve and he pulled the two parts together rather awkwardly with his right hand. When John saw he couldn't close the zipper, he took it and closed it without a word. They both ignored the action.

'How did you find me?' Sherlock asked.

'I didn't find you. Mycroft did.'

Sherlock gave him a look. 'How did Mycroft find me then?'

John looked him in the eyes. 'Why don't you ask him yourself? Now, let's go, shall we?'

Quite unexpectedly, John threw his arm around Sherlock, who froze for a moment but then accepted it. John led him to the other side of the shelter and from there to a wider path to a parking lot. On it was one black car.

'You were searching for me with your torch.'

'So you saw me then? You could've spared yourself a climb.'

'Well, I didn't know who you were obviously.'

'I thought as much,' John said dryly.

John opened the left back door for him and gestured him inside. Behind the wheel there was a driver Sherlock didn't know. He wore an earpiece and a black suit. By his hair, the clean short nails, broad shoulders and confident military pose, Sherlock recognised that this must be one of Mycroft's men. He greeted and the driver greeted back politely but didn't invite conversation. John went in on the other side, behind the driver.

'We're ready,' he said to the driver, who started the car and they drove off.

The car was warm and Sherlock felt himself relaxing. John put his torch back into his pocket and took out his phone.

'Yes, he's here,' he said. 'We're driving back now…. Ok, see you there.' He hung up.

'Who was that?' Sherlock asked. 'My brother?'

'Lestrade. He was searching on the other side, investigating Mycroft's third hypothesis.'

Sherlock looked outside. Dark hills, no streetlights; the whole area had a slightly eerie atmosphere.

'John?'

'Mmm?'

'Where are we?'

'Lancashire.'

'Oh, of course.' He had no idea why they were in Lancashire and what they were supposed to be doing there. He had been held captive in a house in London.

He took his eyes off the hills and turned towards John. John was watching him intensely, a look he didn't understand. When he spoke, his voice was unusually soft. 'Sherlock, what do you remember?'

Sherlock frowned; his brain seemed to be unable to respond to that command. 'I remember being tortured.'

'What else? After that?'

'I remember running, climbing up the hill, hiding from this car, meeting you…' He heard how his voice trailed off as he tried to remember more things. 'Playing chess with Mycroft, investigating a ghost story, it doesn't make any sense.' He looked at John in alarm. 'John, I have to tell you, I don't know where I am and what I'm supposed to be doing here.'

'Shhhh, I know, it's okay,' John said in a hushing tone.

'Well, that's obviously a lie.'

'Yes, you're right. Of course it's not okay.' John took a deep breath. 'But the important thing is that you're safe. You're safe, Sherlock, and we're here to help you.'

'How do I know I'm safe when I can't even remember why I'm in bloody Lancashire?'

'You have to trust me. And you have to trust your brother and Greg.' John looked Sherlock calmly in the eyes. 'Do you trust me Sherlock?'

Sherlock looked back at him angrily but then finally relaxed. 'Yes, I do trust you,' he mumbled.

'Good, so now you can relax, okay? Are you tired?'

'Yes.'

'Why don't you move over? Move that seatbelt over your head and lie down and use my shoulder as a cushion.'

To Sherlock's surprise, John reached forward and helped him move. John shifted so Sherlock could lean on him and put his arms underneath Sherlock's. Sherlock laid down his head carefully somewhere between John's chest and shoulder. It was strange to lie on top of his friend like that but also comforting to be literally in his arms like that.

'Are you comfortable?' John asked.

'Yes, are you?'

'I'm not too bad.'

'That's a no.'

'Don't worry about me, Sherlock.' John moved his left hand and placed it on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock looked up at John upside down.

'Just close your eyes,' John commanded. Then his voice became soft and slow. 'Close your eyes and relax. Just relax.'

Sherlock obeyed and felt himself relaxing as if someone just pressed a button. It was remarkable easy to follow these instructions. He took a deep breath.

'Yes, focus on your breathing,' John said slowly. 'In and out… in and out,' he said in sync with Sherlock's breathing. As John repeated that a few times he gently moved Sherlock's head in small circles. Sherlock felt his neck muscles relaxing and John slowly pressed his head against his shoulder. Sherlock released the tension he didn't even know he had. '… and as you're focusing on your breathing, you feel yourself sinking away, relaxing even more…'

Sherlock felt all his muscles become softer as he sank deeper. He slid down a bit and for one second he thought about moving up again, but John encouraged him to relax further so instead, he just let it happen. He visualised a staircase in a garden with a beautiful metal railing.

'Now, as you're relaxing, picture in your head a staircase…' John said.

Sherlock frowned and opened his eyes, looking at John upside down again. 'I'm already seeing the staircase. How is that possible?'

John smiled, something that looked ridiculous upside down. 'Because you've been practicing, Sherlock. Mycroft taught you this exercise. Took him forever.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'The world has definitely stopped making sense then.'

'No it hasn't. Now, close your eyes again and focus on your breathing. Off you go into dream land.'

'Technically, it's more like hypnosis,' said Sherlock but did what he was told.

'It's a relaxation exercise. Stop talking now and focus. Just relax.'

Sherlock let John guide him through the exercise. It felt like he'd done it before. The engine of the car and the soft rocking made him sleepy as they moved over the bendy country roads and John's arms around him and his calm voice made him feel safe.

It didn't take very long until the car stopped. When John moved to talk to someone outside, Sherlock came out of his trance and sat up again. They were at a big building, a bit like a hotel, but Sherlock read the sign. It said Lancashire Psychiatric Hospital.

John had finished talking to the man, a security man probably and Sherlock pointed at the sign. 'Anything you haven't told me?' he said flippantly.

John looked at him in earnest. 'I will tell you everything, as often as you need. Let's get back to your room and we will talk.'

The driver parked, John thanked him and they got out. Sherlock followed John inside. He had a room here. He felt how his stomach clenched. This wasn't right at all.


	6. Chapter 6

The building looked pleasant enough. The walls had soft colours and there were posters and paintings. There was a reception desk with a lady who smiled in a friendly manner when they walked in.

'Hello John, Hello Sherlock. Quite a night, wasn't it?'

She knew his first name.

John smiled back, slightly awkwardly. 'I suppose.' He looked over at Sherlock with a smile.

Sherlock just stared at her in shock.

'It's okay, Sherlock,' John said, which only made it worse. He was a patient here and he didn't even know about it. What else did he not know?

The woman smiled at him. 'Still confused. I'm sorry Sherlock, but it will pass.' She turned to John. 'I'll tell Doctor Tailor that you are back.'

'Thank you. He probably already knows we found him. Mycroft has been in contact.'

She nodded and picked up the phone.

John looked at Sherlock. 'Come, I'll show you your room.'

'Will I recognise it?' He didn't want his voice to sound so insecure.

John shrugged. 'There's only one way to find out. You're doing better than yesterday so maybe.'

He turned around and Sherlock followed him into a corridor. Suddenly he stopped. There was a door on the right, the sign said 'Physiotherapy', but the door gave him the creeps. John heard he wasn't coming and turned around and saw Sherlock looking.

'That's the physiotherapy room.'

'Whatever happened to me didn't affect my ability to read, John.' Sherlock looked at the door. 'Why does this place make me so nervous?'

John walked back to Sherlock. 'This is where you got your panic attack. You escaped from this room and ran out of the building.' He gave him a wry smile. 'That's why we all had to sacrifice sleep tonight.'

'I can't remember.'

'I know.' John stepped back. 'Let's go to your room, we're all really tired.'

His room was somewhere on the left, almost at the end. John opened the door. It wasn't locked.

'Hi there.' A tall man with a brown shirt, brown hair and black jeans came their way. From his confident and relaxed attitude, Sherlock deduced that he must be a doctor.

'You must be Doctor Tailor,' he guessed.

'Yes.' Doctor Tailor smiled. 'Do you recognise me?'

'Eh.' Sherlock briefly considered lying. 'Not really.'

'Okay.' He nodded to the room. 'Let's go in, shall we?'

The room was larger than he had expected. It had a table (mostly occupied by a chessboard) with two chairs, a small bathroom, nightstand, wardrobe and a double bed. He didn't entirely recognise it, but it looked familiar. He saw a booklet lying next to the chessboard and he picked it up.

'That's the diary you were keeping,' he said to John.

'Yes, do you remember writing in it?'

'Vaguely.' He opened the diary and moved from the back until he found a page that was written on. It said Wednesday, 10.30, just woke up. He frowned and looked at John. 'What does this mean?'

'Just turn to the previous page,' John said while gesturing. Sherlock turned the page. It said Wednesday, 10.00, just woke up. He looked at John and back to the diary, Wednesday 9.30, just woke up, Wednesday, 9.00, just woke up, Wednesday, 8.30, just woke up…

He looked at John in shock. John took the book from him. 'You're getting better now. You're remembering more, don't you see?'

Sherlock looked at the chess board. 'I played chess here with my brother.'

John nodded and beamed.

'King's gambit,' Sherlock continued. 'I always did a King's gambit. Mycroft complained about it.'

John looked at Doctor Tailor who nodded. 'Better than yesterday,' he commented.

Sherlock looked around. 'I know this place. This is where we did the ghost story.' It didn't make any sense. Why did he remember being on a bizarre case in the place where he was a patient? 'What happened here, John?'

'Ask Mycroft. The whole thing was his idea.'

'It's so strange.' He looked around. One thing stood out in this room. 'Why is there a double bed? That's pretty unusual for a hospital.'

'So that someone can sleep next to you,' John said. 'Or rather, lie awake next to you.' When Sherlock looked at him with a puzzled look he added: 'You have nightmares and you don't know where you are when you wake up. It's necessary. You have ASD on top of your PTA. That's why we're so careful with you.'

'ASD is Acute Stress Disorder, right? Which is something like PTSD but earlier. What is PTA?'

Doctor Tailor gestured him to sit on the bed and sat next to him. 'Sherlock, you have a condition called Post Traumatic Amnesia, probably because of a blow to your head. When the brain moves in the skull, two brain areas called the hippocampi can collide with the lateral ventricle. Do you know what the hippocampi do?'

'Memory.'

'Correct. They create memories, episodic memories, to be precise. Now, due to the damage to the hippocampi, you're temporarily unable to form new memories.' He smiled patiently. 'That means that you'd be asking the same questions over and over again.'

'Or play the same chess game,' Sherlock added.

Doctor Tailor nodded. 'Exactly. Given your current improvements, I would say that this condition will end before the end of this week. Whether you will continue to have neurological problems we don't know yet. It's important to avoid stress.'

'That didn't work too well today.'

John shook his head. 'That's why there should always be someone with you for now.'

Sherlock nodded. He didn't like the idea of people babysitting him, but he understood the logic.

'How long have I been here?'

'This is your second night.' John said. 'You spent one day in the hospital in London and then they brought you here.'

'How long will I stay here?'

Doctor Tailor shrugged. 'We'll see how it goes. Hopefully not longer than a week.'

The doctor asked Sherlock a couple of questions about his balance and whether he had problems breathing or any pain. He felt his pulse and then he was finally satisfied.

'That's it for now. Don't go out at night again,' he said with a smile and went to the door. 'See you tomorrow,' he said and left.

'Let's get ready for bed, shall we?' John said. 'Mycroft and Lestrade will be here in a moment and I'll be riding back with Lestrade.'

'Okay. I'll have a shower.' Sherlock felt cold and the running and climbing had made him sweaty and muddy. He opened the wardrobe and recognised one of his suits, a few of his shirts and underwear but there were also clothes in his size he didn't recognise. There were tracksuits, a sweatshirt, a jumper, a pair of jeans and a grey three piece suit. He looked at the last one.

'A three piece suit for a psychiatric patient?' He grinned. 'How posh is this place?'

John smiled. 'That's not yours. That's Mycroft's.'

'Is he the one who's sleeping next to me?'

John shrugged. 'He has been so far. He's with you at night; I'm here during the day.' He grimaced. 'The other way around Mycroft considered unwise.'

Sherlock smiled back.

John went to the bed and gave Sherlock his pyjamas. Sherlock took clean underpants from the wardrobe, took the pyjamas and went into the bathroom. John followed him and pointed at a plastic bag. 'That's for your hand.'

Sherlock thanked him and went to have a shower. The hot water felt great and he finally felt that he was warming up properly. When he finally got out, he discovered a toothbrush and decided to use that as well. Amnesia had made every action an event.

When he came out of the bathroom, he saw that Mycroft was sitting on the bed and that Greg and John occupied the two chairs. Mycroft gestured him to sit next to him. He obeyed and pulled up his legs onto the bed.

Mycroft looked at him slightly amused. 'So, Sherlock, back from your nightly walk? We do appreciate that you care to exercise, it's just the manner and timing that causes us disconcert.'

Sherlock smiled despite himself. He felt relaxed now, even though the environment still didn't make much sense to him.

Greg smiled back at him. 'Good to see you,' he said warmly. 'We have started to call you Sherlock Houdini.'

Sherlock smiled back. 'What happened to the Triangle?'

'Caught them.' Greg looked at Mycroft. 'It's amazing what you can do, once the powers that be shift their priorities.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw his brother roll his eyes. He looked at him now. 'Have mom and dad visited?'

'As soon as I called them.'

'And when was that?'

Mycroft looked firm and then raised an eyebrow. 'Tomorrow.'

John shook his head. Sherlock laughed. Sometimes, Mycroft was just like him.

Mycroft looked at John who nodded. 'He's remembering longer stretches of time.'

Mycroft turned back to Sherlock and cleared his throat. 'Sherlock, it's time that you cracked that little ghost story case.'

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look. 'Maybe John should explain that thing about hippocampi and damage.'

'Oh, but you do remember, Sherlock. That was the whole point.' Mycroft lay back against the pillow. 'Think about it. When was the first time you experienced the ghost?'

He thought about it. He had talked about the ghost in this room with John but even then, he had known the story before and it had made him uneasy. Something about a hand in a bed… And then he remembered. He remembered waking up in the dark and working out that he was in a hospital. Just as he was beginning to relax, it had been there; a hand, stroking his hair. A hand with a ring.

Sherlock looked at his brother. 'It was you. You were the ghost.' He looked at Mycroft's right hand. 'It was your hand.'

Mycroft gave him his hand, palm up. 'Still scary?'

'When John reported you missing I immediately put ten people on the case, including myself, but John had already traced your movements and found you first. Instead of waiting for backup, he found an opportunity to get inside and take you out of the house. Unfortunately, you were discovered and John had to fight. He got a concussion and needed one day of hospitalisation. I found you in the ICU. You were given oxygen and saline. They had sedated you at first but they don't like doing that to an injured brain. So I stayed with you and talked to you so that they could slowly take you off the medication. When the night came, I wanted to remain in the chair but someone suggested I'd sleep next to you. I decided to keep a hand on you so you'd remember I was there.'

He smiled tiredly. 'It worked up to a point, until you, waking up from a nightmare, were convinced that they had found you and wanted to escape. This happened a few times. The next day you were moved. I stayed with you and told you the ghost story, over and over again. Last night, the panic attack had changed into an interesting puzzle.' He sighed. 'I would call that a success.'

Sherlock looked at John. 'So you were playing along the whole time?'

'I'm sorry but otherwise I'd have to explain everything so many times and every time you'd have a shock again.' John looked at him with genuine sympathy.

'But I could remember the story? How does that work?'

'Your mind fills in the gaps it misses, the same way it fills in the missing visual input from the blind spots in our eyes.' Mycroft looked at him in earnest. 'The ghost was there to help you, Sherlock.'

He remembered the hand stroking his hair. His heart was racing. Then there was the voice. It made him jump but then he recognised Mycroft's voice. 'Just relax, Sherlock. Focus on your breathing.' He had obeyed.

'You were with me that whole night?'

'And the night after that, I'll stay with you tonight as well.' Mycroft pulled a face. 'We have noticed that leaving you alone results in undesirable consequences.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him but didn't protest. He realised he remembered things. Not proper memories but random flashes, without indication of the order or duration.

 _He woke up, he didn't know where he was. It looked like a small room. He saw that he held an IV bag in his hand that was attached to his arm. He heard a loud 'ping' and sliding doors opened. It was a lift. He found the display and it said zero. That was ground floor, apparently. Wherever he was, ground floor was a good start for an escape so he stepped out into a large hall. Front desk, people waiting, people with disabilities, people in white coats and short sleeves; this was obviously a hospital. They were probably patching him up so that they could torture him again. Front door was where he was heading. As he walked, he noticed that it was hard to keep upright; it was as if the ground itself was swaying. People who were walking in were looking at him and he pretended to know exactly where he was going._

' _Can I help you?' asked a man from the front desk, obviously security._

 _He indicated that he was going to smoke outside and the man nodded and left him alone. He walked towards the door; the floor was still refusing to be straight. Around him, people were walking in and out. Suddenly, he heard his name. From the people, he now saw a man coming straight at him with big steps. It was Mycroft._

' _Sherlock!' Mycroft grabbed him by his shoulders without hesitation. 'Come, brother, you're going in the wrong direction.'_

'I escaped in London too?'

'Yes, not surprisingly you're rather good at it. Hopefully, it'll end soon.' Mycroft smirked and then looked at John and Greg.

'Yes, it's time we should go home, don't you think?' John said to Greg.

They said goodbye. John promised to be back tomorrow, and Greg promised to visit soon. When they had gone, Sherlock went to the bed the furthest from the door. It was obvious that this was his place and that Mycroft was sleeping on the side of the bed nearest to the door, he didn't need to ask that. He was almost sleeping when Mycroft went into the other bed. They said goodnight.

Now he was wide awake again. He felt an unpleasant sensation in his stomach and his thoughts were racing. He suddenly felt the strong urge to talk.

'Mycroft? I'm afraid.'

'I know. You've been afraid for quite a while. It's not much of a consolation but you're less afraid than yesterday. '

'What if I never get better? What if I keep being here in this limbo land and wake up every night thinking I'm back?

'You will get better.'

'What if…'

'Then we will continue to find the best care for you. John and I have already learned a lot on how to handle your condition. We will continue learning.'

'But you won't. At some point you will get bored of being with your brain damaged brother.' He took a deep breath. 'I'm not much use for you anymore. Even if I do recover I may never get back to normal completely.'

'That first night, in the hospital, do you remember what I said to you?'

'Of course not.'

'But you know, right?'

Sherlock was silent for a moment. He tried to piece all the fragments together: the chess game, the run through the night, the ghost story. Of course, Mycroft was right, he did know.

'You said: being with you is its own reward.'

'I did indeed. You don't need to entertain me, Sherlock. Now, good night.' And with his hand he softly stroked Sherlock's hair.


End file.
